Never Any Angels
by Mandy of the Amoeba
Summary: A reflection about perfection. That's really all I can say about it....oh, and it's from Minerva McGonagall's POV...


A/N: This is just one of those impulse fics. I don't know why I wrote it, I just wanted to. And yes, the person talking is Minerva. Who else would I write about? Oh, and just for clarification, the religious views expressed here are in no way connected to my own. Thank you. :)

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_Every finger in the room is pointing at me  
I wanna spit in their faces  
Then I get afraid of what that could bring  
I got a bowling ball in my stomach  
I got a desert in my mouth  
Figures that my courage would choose to sell out now_  
  
Nothing ever changes. When I was young, the only child, the prodigy.....it was the same then as it is now, forty years later. Still the one expected to take care of everything, to make everyone proud. Still the one expected to be talented enough and patient enough and strong enough to do more than I'm assigned. To teach children all day, take care of the paperwork in the afternoon, and go to meetings at night. Everyone always thinks of Dumbledore as being the one with the weight of the world on his shoulders, and he does have a lot of responsibility. After all, he is a powerful wizard, probably as powerful as You-Know-Who. But in his glory, everyone overlooks the person directly below him in power.  
  
Albus holds the position of the leader, and yet he isn't the one who sorts through important Hogwarts papers as well as grading student papers night after night. No one even bothers to give me any recognition for my duties, duties that they take for granted as simply belonging to the position of Deputy Headmistress. No one even bothers to look at all the extra things I do, at all the extra hours I put in. It's just something I'm expected to do. Often times it makes me nearly sick to think about.  
  
And when there is a mistake somewhere? When there is a glitch in the plans, a flaw in the oh-so-orderly procedures? The fingers all point to me. They know that, nine times out of ten, a mistake would be the result of some small oversight on my part. Of course they never accuse me openly; it's much more humiliating to have the eyes looking sideways at me, the snatches of conversation murmured in quiet tones containing my name. At times, I want to revolt against it. At times, I almost think I will, but then my courage somehow seems to fail me. Thoughts of the consequences rob me of my strength. I'm brave enough to fight in the rising of the Dark Lord, yet too cowardly to speak up for myself amongst the people I should be able to trust and confide in. The whole world crashes down at my feet and there's not even an empathetic ear to speak to. Not even a prayer in my heart to help.  
  
_I've been looking for a savior in these dirty streets  
Looking for a savior beneath these dirty sheets  
I've been raising up my hands drive another nail in  
Just what God needs, one more victim_  
  
I think there was a time, a time before all the bad things began, when I still had my prayers, when I still believed in a God. Even as a young witch, with all the pressures mounded over top of me by my parents, I had some sort of faith. Then Voldemort came into power. I can remember the first time I saw the aftermath of one of his earlier attacks, the misery and destruction he left behind. Staring out at the filthy, shattered streets, the wailing of hysterical mothers filling my ears, I wondered where my God had disappeared to. Then later on, helping identify bodies, as I looked underneath the thin, stained white sheets that covered the dead, I began to question whether there had ever been a God there in the first place. After that, I never really believed again.   
  
I'm not an atheist; I am simply an agnostic. I don't really deny the existence of God. There might be a God out there somewhere. After all, it's a good explanation for why we might have been put here. I just choose not to believe one way or the other. If God is there, I can't believe that he's the same one I believed in as a child. I can't believe he really watches over any of us. Not after what I've seen. You watch enough innocent people be slain senselessly, and it sort of gets to you after a while.   
  
_Why do we crucify ourselves?  
Every day I crucify myself  
Nothing I do is good enough for you  
Crucify myself  
Every day I crucify myself  
And my heart is sick of being in chains_  
  
There's not any real point to existence; I figured that out a long time ago. We're just here on Earth, crucifying ourselves little by little, day by day. Some of us faster than others, I suppose. I'm one of the faster ones. I berate myself for my mistakes, punish myself for my faults. There's no one around to talk things out with, so I mentally give myself reprimands. Each day, the nails dig in a little deeper. Each day, the chains tighten just enough to feel suffocating. After so long, there's no way out.   
  
_I've been looking for a savior in these dirty streets  
Looking for a savior beneath these dirty sheets  
I've been raising up my hands, drive another nail in  
Where are those angels when you need them?_  
  
So as the nails bear down and the chains tighten, I continue looking for some sort of absolution to save me from the despair. I continue with life, my main goal being to keep everyone from suspecting I'm unhappy. They'd only say I'm feeling sorry for myself. After all, I'm very well off, aren't I? I have a steady, influential job. I have above average magical abilities. They say I have no cause to be unhappy, and perhaps they're right. But a steady income isn't important when there's nothing you really want...nothing money can buy, anyway. Magical abilities gain you power and respect, but they also gain a lot of trouble and worry. Magic isn't able to fix everything. All it's done for me is help to tear me down.  
  
There are never any freedoms.   
  
There are never any escapes.   
  
There are never any angels.


End file.
